Happy Birthday, You Insufferable Git
by CumberMey
Summary: It's Sherlock 40th birthday, but he doesn't want anyone to know. Not even John. JOHNLOCK


**Happy birthday, you insufferable git**

_December 16th 23:57_

"Well, that was tiresome," Sherlock says as he shuts the door behind him. He takes off his soaked scarf and coat and hangs them aside to dry out.

"Why would you say that? It looked like you actually enjoyed yourself." John is already heading to his old room, to put his lovely daughter to sleep. Since he and Mary got divorced last year, John only gets to be with his almost two-year-old daughter once a week and every other weekend. It isn't nearly enough, but when they do get together, John makes sure that she has a nice cozy bed and fun with her old man.

"I certainty did not. There was so much noise...too many people. You know I don't like too many people in one place, John." Sherlock sighs dramatically and puts the kettle on. A few minutes later, and two mugs of tea ready, Sherlock hears John coming down the stairs and turns around, holding John's tea. John takes the tea from him and smiles at him, amused.

"Come on, Sherlock, it was Molly's birthday. You don't turn 37 every day. And it really looked like you had fun...And you can't say you didn't at least enjoy the cake—you ate 4 pieces, and you would have eaten more if Molly hadn't told you to leave some for the others."

"It was a good cake, John! You know I love Red Velvet cake," Sherlock protests and takes a sip from his hot tea. "Thank god no one knows when my birthday is. If I saw so many people doing such boring things on my birthday, it'd officially become the worst day of the year."

John smiles and kisses Sherlock gently. Sherlock can taste the bitterness of the beer John's been drinking and also the sweetness of the cake he only tasted after Sherlock convinced him that he had to try it. He will never get used to that; to tasting John, to feeling his soft lips as he kisses him. To the always unexpected affection that all these kisses bring. They have been in an official relationship for nearly seven months now, and Sherlock suspects it was the best seven months of his life.

It's a quick kiss, just enough to make Sherlock want more, just a little touch of the lips. John backs away a bit, just enough to look Sherlock in the eye.

"Fun fact," John says with a teasing smile. "I know."

Sherlock can feel his face going pale as he stares at the one from whom he has successfully been hiding this fact over the last five years.

"You don't," Sherlock snorts, doesn't let John see his fear. Sherlock knows it's an irrational fear, but god, how he hates his birthday. Even as a child, his birthdays were always the worst day of the year: always the coldest, always the saddest, always the loneliest. When he was five years old, he decided that he would not tell anyone when his birthday is, so they can't make it even worse, as people usually do.

"But I do, and it's not so far away, is it?" Sherlock narrows his eyes and looks closely at his partner. Could it be that he actually knows? Who could have told him? Mycroft knows that if he told anyone, Sherlock would hate him for the rest of his life—it's not a risk Mycroft wants to take.

"When is it then?"

"Why would I tell you?"

"It's my birthday, John, I already know when it is." Sherlock forgets all about his tea; he only concentrates on one thing, and it's what he suspects John knows.

"Sherlock, really…This is ridiculous."

"Yes," Sherlock agrees. "It is. Celebrating birthdays is absurd for anyone older than twelve."

John sighs heavily and shakes his head. He kisses Sherlock on the cheek and leaves him alone in the kitchen—going to their shared bedroom.

A few minutes later, when Sherlock decides to join John, John is already curled up under the covers. Sherlock takes off his clothes, staying only in his underwear, and gets into the bed and under the blanket. He lies with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling and deep in his train of thoughts.

He thinks about all the birthdays he's had, the worst and the best. He comes to the conclusion that the best birthday he had was when he was six years old, when his father bought him his first violin. Sherlock fell in love with the instrument in a heartbeat. Other than that, even the birthdays he shared with John were horrible: the first one he had the ridiculous crush on Irene (which made John insufferable), the second and the third ones he was already "dead," the fourth John was making a scene and made Sherlock feel guilty about the "suicide." Again.

The fifth, the last one he shared with John, was a horrifying day in which Mary and John asked him to take care of Joanna for the entire day. It was the first time he had been left alone with her; he was terrified, and she didn't stop crying.

No, even with John in his life, his birthdays were still crappier than everyone else's. He never understood why everyone he knows gets so excited about their birthdays; throwing parties, making cakes, always looking like they're the happiest people in the universe. Which is ridiculous, of course—every day there are many people who celebrate their birthdays, so they can't all be the happiest. People are so absurd, Sherlock decides.

"What are you thinking about?" John asks him sleepily. His eyes are still closed but he can sense that something is disturbing Sherlock deeply, so there's no chance he's going to sleep anytime soon.

"Birthdays," Sherlock answers simply and pulls John closer to him until John's head rests on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock wraps his arms around John and holds him tightly.

"Hmm… That bad?"

"Worse than you might think."

John spreads his arm over Sherlock's waist and holds him tightly.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock," he says. "I've always respected your wish that your birthday stays a private thing, but you're turning 40. It's a big deal. I want us to celebrate it together." John raises his head from Sherlock's chest enough to look at him. Sherlock doesn't know what he sees in his face, but what he does makes him look sadder.

Sherlock kisses him—he can't stand seeing John sad, but there's nothing John can say or do to convince Sherlock to tell him when his birthday is. He wouldn't mind telling if he was certain that John wouldn't throw any ridiculous parties for him, or tell other people, like Molly, and they would make everything like a living nightmare with cakes.

John backs away and rests his head again on Sherlock's chest—listening to Sherlock's almost 40-year-old beating heart. "I love you," he whispers to him before he drifts off to peaceful sleep and can sense Sherlock's heart skipping a beat.

"I love you more."

_January 2nd 14:32_

The next two weeks go by without a mention of Sherlock's birthday. Sherlock and John continue on with their daily routine, which basically means going on cases and having a lot of sex. And doing neither of things while Johanna stays with them at 221B. Sherlock hopes that John has already forgotten all about the birthday thing, but he knows that this is very unlikely. John loves Sherlock, Sherlock is absolutely sure of that, so he would like to make Sherlock happy during this boring day.

Sherlock can't help but remember the last birthday John had. It was the first time they had sex. Full sex, not just blow- or handjobs. They were both so clueless about what to do, it went so terribly wrong, and it was awkward and painful for Sherlock. It got even worse once John noticed that Sherlock was in pain, and his cock went soft in an instant. Sherlock can't forget the look on John's face—he looked so miserable and so regretful for hurting Sherlock. It took them a while to figure out how to make this enjoyable, but they did, and now neither of them can make it through a few days without it.

"Oi, Sherlock, are you listening?" Lestrade cuts Sherlock's train of thoughts. Sherlock is sitting in Lestrade's office and trying to ignore his voice as much as he possibly can. The case they want Sherlock's help with is so boring and obvious—Sherlock finds no reason to actually listen. He sighs heavily and rolls his eyes. "It was the daughter, Lestrade. Once again you ignore some of the most obvious facts."

"The daughter?! Have you gone mad?!"

"Yes, the daughter. Did you look at her? Her arm is covered with injection marks, and she didn't give a damn about her parents. When you told her, didn't she look a little relieved? She wasn't sad, that's for sure. She wanted the money to be able to buy more drugs. Not her best plan, but a typical junkie's plan. She only cared about one thing, and that was to pay the debts she owes to her dealer and buy some more drugs. I'm sure she'll regret that the minute she sobers up."

"Is that a metaphor? Sherlock, did you kill your parents?" Lestrade teases him as a way to earn some more time to think about the issue himself.

"Sarcasm, I hope," Sherlock says and stands up, turning to walk away from the office. When he arrives at the door, he turns around and looks at Lestrade thoughtfully.

"Why do people love birthdays so much?" he asks him. It takes Lestrade a full two seconds to notice that Sherlock has asked him a question and looks up at him in wonderment.

"Don't know, was never a fan of birthdays. But I think people just like to think of it as that they've survived another year. I don't know anyone who is celebrating the fact that he was born." Lestrade narrows his eyes and keeps looking at Sherlock as if he has gone mad. "When is your birthday, Sherlock? You never told me."

"Thank you, Graham, let's hope you never know." Sherlock says to the detective inspector and walks out of the office.

"It's GREG!" he hears from afar, but couldn't care less.

_January 6th 08:54_

Another few days have passed and the big day arrives. January 6th.

It is barely nine in the morning, and even so, it's the best birthday he's ever had. He wakes up tangled in John arms, with John's erection pressed against his thighs. One thing leads to another, and now Sherlock is lying on his back, having his cock in his boyfriend's mouth, and telling himself that it is, in fact, a very happy birthday.

When they finish, John kisses Sherlock and gets out of bed to take a shower, leaving Sherlock in bed with his own thoughts. Sherlock can't help but feel relieved that John probably doesn't know that today is Sherlock's birthday. He is sure that if he knew, he would have said something meaningless like "Happy birthday," or "Many happy returns," or something equally idiotic and boring.

Less than a half hour later, they have had a nice warm shower and are getting ready for another day in their life. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened, and for once, Sherlock is happy about it. They talk about nothing at all and drink coffee (that John so expertly made).

"I'm going out tonight," John tells him and takes another sip from his coffee. Sherlock looks at him, confused, and feels a sudden ache in his chest. He can't help but think that John is ditching him on his birthday.

"What? Why?"

"Because I promised Mike we'd go for a pint after New Years." He shrugs and takes another slice of his toast, looking at Sherlock with a blank gaze.

"Oh," is all Sherlock is able to say, and lowering his eyes so John can't meet them, and can't see the aching disappointment.

John narrows his eyes as he tries to figure out what he is missing, but says nothing.

"I just thought…" Sherlock hesitates, "that we could go out tonight. Angelo's, maybe?"

"Really? You hate going out when it snows…I'll make it up to you tomorrow," John promises him as he gets up, kisses Sherlock's forehead and leaves for work. Sherlock desperately wants to say that it won't matter anyway tomorrow, but he says nothing except, "Have a good day, love you," as he watches his boyfriend leave the flat.

The second John leaves the flat, Sherlock's iPhone buzzes and announce a new incoming message.

'Happy birthday, brother dear. Picking you up for lunch at 12.00. Sushi? MH'

'Sounds horrible, do I have to? SH'

'Be ready no later than 11.50. MH'

Sherlock rolls his eyes and picks up his violin. At least he can do one fun thing on his birthday.

The lunch with Mycroft is as horrible as he expects; the sushi was good, great, even. But the company is utterly annoying.

Mycroft keeps telling him he should do more cases for Queen and Country. The only problem is that those cases are the most boring ones, and no one can force him into taking them. The only good thing coming from this lunch besides the sushi, is that Mycroft gets so angry with Sherlock not taking the cases, that he accidentally drops on the floor a bottle of wine worth £230. That is precious.

After lunch, all Sherlock does is play the violin. He plays every written violin sheet of Chopin. He wants John to come back home so desperately—he wants him to be there for him. He is 40, for crying out loud!

After three whole hours of playing the violin, waiting for John to come back home after work, at least for a while, Sherlock decides that an experiment is required. He gives up as soon as he thinks about John's reaction if he sees a mess in the kitchen. He wants John to be happy when he comes home, at least today. He needs John to put all his attention on Sherlock. Every bit of it.

Sherlock has never felt so lonely on his birthday. He has never cared so much before. But now, he knows what it's like to be with someone, he knows what it's like to be with John, and he misses it so much, especially now when he's getting older. Forty. Oh lord.

When John finally comes home, Sherlock is already in bed, reading a book about the chemical response to fear. He hasn't read anything he didn't know already. Utterly useless.

Sherlock is trying not to be overexcited that John's footsteps sound closer and closer. He shifts a bit under the covers and looks at his watch. It's just ten minutes before midnight. Still his birthday. Still just turned 40. Still needs John.

"Hey, what are you reading?" John stands at the doorway with something under his armpit. Sherlock barely gives him a glance. He's still upset that John has left him for the entire day, but he can't explain it to John, so he answers simply. "Book."

"I can see that. What book?" John asks as he approaches the bed. Sherlock gives him a better look; he doesn't look drunk, or even a bit tipsy. He looks really tired, though, but not as he might look after spending the night in a pub with Mike.

"You weren't at the pub." It's not a question, but John nods anyway.

"Then where were you?" Sherlock asks, feeling anger rising inside of him; he can understand if John wants to spend time with his other friends. No, scratch that, he can't understand that but he accepts it, and now he sees that John has left him for no reason at all.

John sits on the edge of the bed, smiling at him. "Wandered around. Thought you wanted to be alone today." John reaches out and strokes Sherlock's hair gently. He leans in and kisses Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock remains silent, not wanting to let John know how much he needed his presence today.

John hands Sherlock the package, who eyes it strangely.

"Open it," John encourages him, "it's for you." John smiles at him and keeps stroking his hair fondly.

Sherlock opens the wrapping paper slowly, already knowing it's a book, but wanting to see what it's all about in the middle of the night.

The book is brown leather covered with big gold imprint that makes Sherlock's eyes feel moist and his heart beat faster.

"Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson—The early years

2009-2014"

And under that written in small letters: "May there be many, many more years."

Sherlock opens it and sees it's every case they had together. The ones John published on his blog and many others. There are the police reports and photographs and posts from the blog itself. It is beautiful.

Every wonderful moment in Sherlock's last five years are captured in that book; every case, every important event.

On the last page there's a picture of him and John, hugging each other in Baskerville. Under the the picture is written "Many more to come...Happy birthday, Sherlock. Love you. Forever."

Sherlock closes the book and shuts his eyes. He can't deal with the waves of happiness and the unexplained joy and the amount of love that he feels right now to his...well, everything. John is his entire life, and god, how much he loves him. After a few minutes of silence in which Sherlock tries to overcome the emotions, he says, "You should have at least deleted the parts where you say I'm an idiot."

John rolls his eyes and leans forward. Before their lips touch, he whispers to him, "Happy birthday, you insufferable git," and kisses him.


End file.
